


through the looking glass

by catchandsingthesuninflight



Series: 31 Days of Wayhaven [3]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: 31 Days of Wayhaven, Banter, F/F, Fantasy AU, I ALMOST FORGOT TO TAG FALK, it says "detective" but she's basically robin hood in this AU which i think is significantly cooler, look we got the whole squad together!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26802484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catchandsingthesuninflight/pseuds/catchandsingthesuninflight
Summary: A mostly relaxing afternoon in the Kingdom of Wayhaven.  Morgan makes Nat uncomfortable, Ava and Jazz get into an argument, Farah plays the lute.  Oh, and there's a man in the mirror.
Relationships: Female Detective/Morgan (The Wayhaven Chronicles)
Series: 31 Days of Wayhaven [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949068
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	through the looking glass

**Author's Note:**

> Day 3: Mirror
> 
> it's a fantasy AU folks!! is it a very good fantasy AU? no! but it was fun to write, so who's the real winner here? 
> 
> for reference (though it's stated multiple times in the fic lmao), Farah is a bard, Morgan is an inquisitor, Nat is an alchemist, and Ava is, of course, a knight.

“Why does magic hate me?” 

Morgan groans loud enough that it echoes off the cobbled walls and around the tower’s circular chamber. “Not this again.”

_“Yes,_ this again,” Jazz fires back, shooting the inquisitor a look. “I would have been an _excellent_ magician. Sorcerer. Wizard. Whatever.”

“And instead you turned into the kingdom’s most infamous thief,” Farah chimes in from where she’s sprawled out on a chair, playing a complicated--but more or less Mundane--riff on her lute. “Never satisfied, huh, Jazzy?”

“You can _literally_ rearrange the fabric of existence,” Jazz drawls. 

The bard grins, teeth white and sharp against her dark brown skin. “All I’m saying is, you shouldn’t sell yourself short. You’ve plenty of other impressive talents. Burglaring, tinkering, scaling very tall buildings, pissing off rich people--”

“Fucking,” Morgan adds helpfully.

“Oh my gods, can you _not,”_ Nat chokes, metal tools clattering on the wooden table around her current alchemical project. Jazz catches Ava’s glance from her position at the window, her expression furrowed, before dutifully returning to the streets below.

“You’re making Natkins blush, Morgan,” Farah laughs.

“If you’re going to be vulgar, _please_ take it outside,” Nat tells them, exasperated. “I am _trying_ to work.”

“What do you say, sweetheart,” Morgan says smoothly, turning to face Jazz with the arch of her brow. “You wanna take this outside?”

Jazz can’t help the sudden coiling of heat in the pit of her stomach, but she takes in a slow, significantly cooler breath, and tosses Morgan a small smile. “Little bit later, sunshine. I want to see how this turns out, first.”

Morgan returns a neutral shrug, but Farah gasps dramatically. “Really? You’d rather watch Nat mess about with a magic mirror rather than spend _quality time_ with Morgan?” 

Jazz shrugs. “I nick it, I’m responsible for it.”

“How noble of you,” Morgan snorts.

“I think so, too,” Jazz replies sweetly, and Morgan fails to stifle a sharp laugh.

Farah shakes her head. “It is _so_ scary how you can just make her do that."

The inquisitor’s expression quickly morphs into a glare, which is _actually_ scary, and the bard raises her lute to shield her face. “You wanna say something, Farah, then--”

“Karma,” Ava proposes, perfect timing as usual, her focus falling on Jazz. Morgan settles back, scowl still in full force. Farah shoots her a sheepish smile, turning her attention back to practicing.

“Pardon?” Jazz asks, leaning forward from where she’s perched on the edge of a stool.

“Why you can’t do magic,” the knight clarifies. “Karma.”

“For what?” the thief asks, not missing a beat, her eyes widening to a parody of innocence. “I’ve never done anything wrong in my entire life.”

Ava’s eyes narrow. “I detest that you can say that without blinking.”

Jazz clicks her tongue, keeping the smile off her face. “Name _one thing_ I’ve done wrong.”

“Other than the multiple instances of theft and endangerment?”

Jazz raises her hands in defense. “Okay, hey. _You_ call it theft, _I_ call it liberating the property of those who so _obviously_ don’t need any more of it. Big difference. And,” she cuts off Ava before she can interrupt, “I told you, they’re only smoke grenades and spark-flares. Totally harmless. Zero percent probability of endangerment.”

Ava crosses her arms, and if looks could kill, Jazz would most certainly be...not quite dead, but at least badly maimed. Or slightly wounded. Maybe a little bit tickled. But they can’t, and she’s alive, unharmed and free to toss the knight a crooked, shit-eating grin.

“You know, she’s got a point,” Farah chuckles from the couch she’s sprawled out across, still plucking absentmindedly at her lute. “ _You,_ on the other hand, oh-fearsome-lionheart--”

“Farah,” Nat says immediately, gaze snapping up from her project. Jazz catches her glance worriedly to Ava, who stiffens, before lapsing back into silence, her gaze once again turning outwards.

“No one followed me,” Jazz says, changing the subject as subtly as she can. Save for the times that Farah likes to mess with Nat or Ava, pasts are not something this group touches upon lightly, and Jazz can respect that. “Honestly, I’m a little offended you’d think I’d get caught.”

“I have no doubt that you are more than competent in the art of larceny,” Ava says drily, and rolls her eyes at Jazz’s little flourish of a bow. “But you are only human, and the wrath of a witch is not something I am looking to incur.”

It’s reasonable enough, though the _more than competent_ was a bit of a low blow; Jazz is _excellent_ at what she does, thank you very much. She drifts over to Ava, taking a spot with her by the window and patting her on the shoulder. “You worry too much, you know that?” 

Ava shrugs her hand off with a little scoff; Morgan snickers in the background. 

Farah’s tune has turned into something fast-paced and humorous--a trade-off, an argument, a joust. Exaggerated and slightly idiotic, and when Jazz throws the woman an arched look, she merely returns the look and plays harder, the amusement clear in the gleam of her golden eyes. 

“I’m just saying,” Jazz says, turning back to Ava, “all that magic crap, you think she’s really going to be missing a little mirror?”

Ava opens her mouth to retort, but it’s Nat who answers. “She just might,” the alchemist states grimly, her hands falling on the table, her gaze on the artifact in front of her. Magic may hate Jazz, but she’d have to be dead to not be able to sense the potential fizzling within the mirror. Which is precisely why she had stolen it.

“Found something interesting, Natkins?” Farah asks, her song stopped short in the face of other, more intriguing matters. As always when the bard stops playing, the absence of the melody is felt deeply by everyone in the room, the lighter atmosphere giving way to apprehension.

“See for yourself,” Nat says, voice carefully even. She looks up to meet Ava’s gaze, a silent exchange passing between them, that ends with the knight unsheathing the greatsword from its place at her back. 

“Careful,” Jazz hisses, taking a wide step away from Ava’s murder radius and towards Nat’s decidedly less stabby workspace. Morgan follows close behind, hackles raised.

Farah is already there, peering into the mirror beside the alchemist. “Woah,” she says, glancing up at the rest of them. “There’s somebody in there.”

“Who?” Ava asks sharply, grip tightening.

“Dunno,” Farah shrugs, turning to Nat, who is silent. Jazz can practically see her mind whirring. “Should we ask him?”

Jazz vaults over the edge of the table to catch the figure in question--thin-faced and pale-skinned, with a shock long, of bone-white hair. He is silent, unmoving save for the way he scans them, black sclera and white irises watching, narrowed.

“Hello?” Nat says finally, somehow more calm and open than wary. “Can you hear me?”

After five seconds that Jazz spends with her breath held, the figure answers, but not in any language that she understands. Which is a shame; she considers herself quite the linguist for someone who’s never had a proper education of any kind. The cadence of it, though...Jazz once knew a bloke from a smaller kingdom northwest of Wayhaven. Nice fellow, though he was something of a cheat at cards. Which isn’t the point.

She’s not _that_ surprised when Nat answers back in the same language, words crisp and accent perfect. Honestly, she’d be more shocked if Nat _couldn’t_ speak a language that was extremely rare and not at _all_ necessary to live a long and happy life in this kingdom. Also not the point, but then Jazz catches a word that Nat repeats, emphasizes. _Sanja._

Farah watches the exchange raptly, though Jazz knows she understands the language about as much as her, by the way she keeps throwing questioning glances to Nat. When she starts plucking at her lute again, both Ava and Morgan throw her sharp looks in unison, and Jazz doesn’t need any kind of mental magic to understand their message. But Farah ignores her, and so does Jazz, because the bard is a _genius._ Her nimble fingers gracefully play out a sweeping melody that starts out impossibly intricate before she masterfully disassembles it into something much more simple, but no less beautiful.

“--work for the King?” The creature’s words suddenly make sense in the rest of the party’s ears. Farah’s song ends, but the magic of it remains, as does the wide grin she wears. Jazz subtly gives her five behind Nat’s back.

“The Queen,” Nat corrects. “Any grievances you have, we would be happy to convey, Falk. Or, we can arrange your attendance with the court directly.”

The creature, _Falk,_ snorts. “Respectfully,” he drawls, though Jazz gets a feeling that’s a bit of a fib, “I do not trust your court, or its Queen. I’m afraid this matter must finally be taken into my own hands.” His expression softens suddenly, something like remorse in his eyes. “You must understand, Natalie Sewell. My people are dying, and I only do what must be done to protect them. We seek no war. Only justice.”

“Wait,” Nat starts, but Falk’s image is already rippling, like a pebble dropped past the placid surface of a pond. Jazz blinks, and to all appearances it’s a normal mirror again, its potential simmering warm beneath the surface. 

“Well,” Farah breaks the silence, “that was... _interesting._ ” She taps the tips of her fingers together in a silent rhythm, looking towards Ava and Nat. “Uh, what now?”


End file.
